


In God's Service

by Karri



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, Spiritual, Supernatural Elements, s02e10 Trial and Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karri/pseuds/Karri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis has vowed to devote his life to God, and yet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In God's Service

**Author's Note:**

> Figured I’d get this out of the way before Season 3 starts and makes it AU. This is wholly show!Aramis, not book!Aramis, as his motivations for becoming a priest are very different between the two.

Aramis leaned against a tree at the edge of the meadow overlooked by his destination. It was still raining, as it had been for the past several days, and the trees offered some, if not complete, shelter.

 _Of course, the convent would offer more shelter than the trees,_ he reminded himself. But still, he couldn’t quite get himself to mount up and ride the remaining distance. After all, he had no real reason to be there. It was a convent; he was seeking to enter a monastery. _No, that is not true,_ he chastised. _You know very well why you are here...You are here to speak to Isabel._

Acknowledging his true motive to himself did not help prod him up onto his horse, though. _Why?_ He asked himself, as he had a dozen times already. _Why must you speak to Isabel? You have given God your word, you have said your goodbyes to your old life, why delay with this nonsense? She is dead; she can give no comfort, no eloquent words of encouragement... Why do this to yourself?_

Still, he could not ride away, either. Some part of his soul _needed_ to speak to Isabel now, _before_ he had _officially_ committed himself to God’s service. Aramis sighed. Turning away from the meadow, he sat back down by his small fire and gazed into it without really seeing it as his minded drifted aimlessly.

His thoughts were meandering so lazily that he might have fallen asleep, but for a sudden deafening boom of thunder and the blinding flash of lightening striking a nearby tree, sending a branch hurtling down. It landed part way in his campfire, sending sparks flashing up into the air, and Aramis up onto his feet.

 _A sign?_ He queried. A small, sideways sort of smile crept onto his face as the question was seemingly answered with another loud boom of thunder. _All right, then, enough delay. I will get on with it,_ he replied.

Scrubbing out his fire, Aramis packed up his small camp and mounted. He hesitated again, though, at the tree break. The rain, which had been drizzling, was now sheeting down in buckets. _I will be soaked right through to my core by the time I get there,_ he sighed, his resolve weakening, but then another bright flash of lightening burst overhead. _All right, all right, I’m going._

Aramis had been correct in his assessment; he was quite thoroughly and completely soaked through to his core by the time he reached the convent gate. _I miss my leathers,_ he lamented. The uniform wouldn’t have kept him dry, but it would have offered more protection from the rain than soggy cloth he now wore. Aramis pushed the thought aside though. _That was my old life; I must let it go._

Refocusing his attention, Aramis dismounted and bowed politely to the nun who had come out to greet him. _I do not recognize her, but it HAS been sometime since I was last here. I suppose it is to be expected that new faces would have joined the old ones._

“Aramis!” a voice he recognized greeted a moment later, and he looked up into the smiling face of Mother Superior. “What brings a King’s Musketeer to our humble convent on a day such as this?” she inquired.

Aramis smiled, before answering, “Not a King’s Musketeer anymore.”

Mother Superior looked him up and down once, then nodded, “Ah, yes, I see now. Still, the question remains, how may we be of service to you?”

Aramis’s gaze fell to his boots, which he scuffed on the ground a moment before raised his eyes back up to meet Mother Superior’s patient expression. “I had hoped...if you would allow it...I wanted to speak to Isa...I mean Sister Helene.”

Mother Superior’s brow furrowed, and, as she stared into his hopeful face, it felt to Aramis almost as though she were gazing into his soul. After a moment, which had seemed a lifetime, she nodded. “I will take you to her grave.”

Aramis was surprised to be led to a small plot behind the convent rather than inside the chapel.  Grape vines from the convent orchard had spread along the wall above her grave. The sight brought back to him the memory of Isabel revealing herself to him beside the convent distillery, and it stung, still, despite all that had happened since.

“She had a God-given gift in the tending of green and growing things, and so this seemed a more fitting place for her to rest than beneath the chapel.”

Aramis nodded, agreeing that it was a more suitable burial place than the chapel for the Isabel he remembered. _And it works out well, for you,_ he acknowledged, somewhat cynically. _For it will be easier to speak with her more freely outside the chapel._

“You are welcome to wait inside until the rain stops, if you are not in a hurry,” Mother Superior offered, tilting her head up into the sheeting rain.

Aramis shook his head. “I would rather not wait,” he stated, _for I might lose my courage, if I do._ “And as I can hardly get any wetter than I already am, I do not think the rain will trouble me.”

Mother Superior smiled, patiently, and nodded in acquiescence. “Take whatever time you need,” she offered. “We will leave you undisturbed.”

Aramis bowed his appreciation, then watched the nun disappear back inside, before kneeling on the sodden ground beside Isabel’s grave. To his frustration, though, now that he was there, he found himself at a loss for words.   So, he just sat, staring unseeingly at her grave, as his mind wandered the paths of memory until it found a young girl, smiling, trusting, willingly giving herself to him completely.

All too soon, it seemed to him, his mind carried him forward in time to the convent. The memory of her words stung his heart anew, just as sharply as they had then, when she had first spoken them.

 _What did we have?_ She had asked him, as though their love had been nothing. _I remember a young man being forced to marry a girl he had seduced and made pregnant._

And yet, he still remembered a love that he had thought to be the only real, true love of his life. Had she been right? Had it really been a lie? Something he had convinced himself was true to content himself with a forced marriage?

 _No!_ His mind shouted. _No! Whatever she believed, I COULD see it; I can still see it! A life, with her, children at our feet!_

_No doubt a little part of him was relieved when the baby was gone, and he didn’t have to marry._

Aramis shot to his feet, suddenly feeling the need to hit something, or shoot something, or tear something out of the ground. No! She was wrong! Whether he’d truly loved her, or only convinced himself that he did, she was wrong about the child! Never, not for a moment, had he been relieved the baby was gone. That child, his child, had been a part of him—from the moment she had told him of it, it was as much a living, breathing part of him within her womb as ever it could have been had it been born. He still grieved that child. _I think I will always grieve the loss of that child,_ he informed the grave.

But the grave could not answer.

 _She believed she acted out of kindness,_ he reminded himself. _Whether she truly did, or only convinced herself that she did, it does not matter,_ he decided; the anger drained from him, and seemed to take his strength with it. Aramis could almost imagine it soaking into the ground with the rainwater as a slow fog rose up to encase his brain until he was aware of nothing else – not even the coldness of the ground as he crumpled into a heap upon it.

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

_Aramis!_

Aramis started at the sound of the voice, and he looked around desperately seeking the speaker. “Isabel?”

 _Yes, it is I,_ the voice answered. _I recall hoping we would not meet again soon, and yet here you are._

Aramis’s brow furrowed. “Here I am...where?” he asked, but his mind found the answer before Isabel could speak it. “Heaven? Is this heaven? Am I dead?”

 _Perhaps,_ she answered, and he almost thought she shrugged, though it seemed an odd gesture coming from her in this place. _But I do not think so...not yet, at least. I do not think a fever could burn so hot were you not still among the living._

 _Fever?_ He wondered.

 _Yes,_ answered Isabel, though he not spoken the thought aloud. _Trial and death sentence, fear for the family you love but can never possess, escape and exile – you have had a tumultuous time of it of late, and it seems it has all caught up to you at last._

Aramis responded with a mirthless chuckle. _It seems I really am unworthy of His mercy..._

 _Nonsense!_ Replied Isabel. _No one is beneath God’s mercy, Aramis._

Aramis met her gaze, but neither said nor thought any reply.

 _I think, perhaps, mercy is exactly his plan, in this instance,_ Isabel proposed, prompting a furrowing of Aramis’s brow. _You made him a vow._

Aramis nodded, recalling the prayer he’d spoken to the walls of his cold cell. _I vow to devote all my remaining days to your grace. I will renounce all worldly temptation, I will. Even my duty._

 _And so you have left your sword behind and ridden off in search of a vocation,_ Isabel continued. Aramis quirked his head, but thought nothing, curiosity demanding he wait to hear her out. _But you did not consider that you already had a vocation; I spoke of it, do you not remember?_

Aramis’s brow furrowed in thought, and then the memory came: _Look at us now. We’ve both found our true vocation. Mine to God, and yours to the sword_

 _But I have sworn to serve Him, to renounce my duty!_ Aramis insisted, but Isabel only smiled.

 _Yet there is more than one way to serve God,_ she reminded him. _Do you not think He needs warriors, as well as priests? How far do you think His word would spread without swords to defend it?_ Aramis opened his mouth to counter her, but Isabel raised a hand to stop him. _He gave you a vocation, Aramis. It is to the sword; that is how you may serve Him best. Do not diminish the gift, do not disregard His will, by turning your back on that which is He has given. Do you really think you can choose a better path than the one He has set forth for you?_

Aramis shook his head. He wanted to argue. There seemed too little penance in serving God by returning to the life and home he longed to have.

_Penance takes many forms, Aramis. In escaping into the church, do you not also escape the penance forced upon you in watching from the outside as another man loves the child you long to claim, but never will?_

Aramis frowned, acceptance of his fate growing with his comprehension of her meaning.

 _No, Aramis. You must accept your vocation, and the penance that comes with it,_ he heard her say, and nodded even as she faded along with the fog that had surrounded them.

“Ah, you are back with us, then?” he heard a familiar voice say and pried his eyes open just enough to glimpse the concerned face of Mother Superior, before letting his lids slip shut again.

“I had thought we might lose you, but the fever has broken, so it seems God has work yet for you in this life, afterall.”

“Indeed,” Aramis whispered, a small smile gracing his lips.

The end.

 


End file.
